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I’m sure there’s a lesson in here somewhere.

6 Mar
Snowquester Bumble.

Snowquester Bumble.

If you’ve been following the national weather this week, then you know there’s been QUITE the hype about the Snowquester storm that was forecast for DC today.

(My sister doesn’t watch the news so her reaction to the word “Snowquester” was to say, “I may have to pop the cyanide tablet tonight,” followed by sharing this video, which I assume is her way of expressing disdain for named storms that she hasn’t heard of. It’s mildly effective.)

Anyway, I love a good storm, so I yesterday I started getting excited for the Snowquester. By which I mean: I bought a bunch of toilet paper and used Facebook to encourage other snow-fans to do the Snow Shake to guarantee the storm’s arrival.

“Start doing your snow dance,” I commanded whenever someone indicated they were even marginally excited about the storm. “Stop typing and start shaking!” I’d admonish.

Of course, when I cast an eye on Facebook during the work day, it’s usually to give myself a two-minute mental break or multi-task while I’m waiting for a conference call to start. In other words: I’m not fully paying attention.

And so this is how it came to pass that I zipped into Facebook and misread my friend’s status:

Tomorrow is not promised to anyone. #HeavyHeart

I was distracted and thinking about the snow forecast when I read this. Also in my defense,  her previous posts had been excitedly discussing the Snowquester, so I skimmed this status and thought its gist was, “They revised the forecast! That sucks!”

Please tell me you can see how I arrived at that interpretation.

Even worse, not only did I skim her status, but – always amusing myself – I felt compelled to comment:

Nonononono! I guess you didn’t dance hard enough!!!!

And because I had things to do, I went back to work.

It wasn’t until the end of the day that I went back to Facebook and saw that TONS of people had jumped on that thread. At first, I thought her friend-base was entirely pro-storm. And then I read their comments, which said things like, “Hugs,” or “Sorry for your loss!” and I realized I needed to re-read her original post.

Oh yes. Now I see: Someone has died. Gulp.

Well, whatever your grief is, I’m glad I could momentarily divert it by suggesting that you actually killed the person by not dancing hard enough.

Turns out, maybe I’m a storm that needs a name? I think we can cross “Sensitive” off the list.

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There’s a party in my pocket…

22 Feb

Image Source: http://farm3.staticflickr.com/2328/2237145054_609fe91027_z.jpg?zz=1

I know, it’s one of the cardinal rules of laundry: always check your pockets.

But you know what? So is the idea of not mixing whites and colors, but I do that all the time without consequences. I think a better rule is: separate loads for things that touch your face and things that touch your butt. Cloth napkins and underwear? Should not be in the same cycle – I don’t care how hot your water is.

Anyway… back to my pockets. I learned the lesson the hard way today.

“Was it a Kleenex?” I can hear you asking.

Worse.

“A pen?” you ask.

Worse.

“An angry squid?” you prompt.

Um, not that bad. And stop guessing before you ruin my story. 

What your laundry looks like after taking Crohn's medicine.

What your laundry looks like after taking Crohn’s medicine.

I take 11 pills a day for Crohn’s, nine of which are slow-release capsules that dissolve in my GI tract. That’s three doses of three pills, staggered 8 hours apart, which makes the mid-day dose a bit problematic to remember. To solve the problem, I set my phone to go off and remind me, and I carry the pills around in my pocket all day so I have them on me when it goes off.

Apparently I missed a dose last week. Because it showed up in my pocket in today’s wash.

“Wait,” I can hear you asking. “How is washing medicine a bad thing?”

I’ll tell you. Aside from the inconvenience of running out early (and having to fight with the insurance company to authorize an early refill as a result), the deal is this: slow release capsules are apparently made from plastic. And they’re filled with white plastic bee-bees the size of cake sprinkles.

As soon as I opened the dryer door, I understood what had happened. Every piece of dark fabric had hundreds of white dots all over it. It looked like someone had shot a small cannon of confetti into the dryer. I cautiously pulled item after item out, the small white balls dropping on the floor as the static that attached them to the clothing wore off.

I sat down to fold the clothes, wondering if it would be obvious where the origin of the leak had been. It was. I lifted a pair of my new (dressy!) fleece pants from the basket and they looked marbleized, they had so much white on them. I shook my head and plunged my hand into the pocket.

Yes, it was full of even more white dots. But the real surprise was the overall texture of the pocket: it had been turned to plastic. Apparently the capsule casing is some form of plastic that melts when exposed to stomach juices or high heat. My pocket was now stiff, like someone had slipped a Shrinky Dink in there.

When seeing the havoc these three simple pills wreaked on a load of laundry, I found myself wondering exactly how they help my gut. Do I have an ever-growing wad of Shrinky Dinks in my stomach? Do my intestines look like a perpetual parade route lined with confetti?

In any case, I think I’ll install a disco ball in my bathroom.

Image Source: http://www.lakberinfo.hu/cikkek/09/01/08/42-18159257.jpg

Apparently I wouldn’t be the first.

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Why you probably shouldn’t drive in the District.

10 Feb

This morning, walking home from breakfast at the Diner, Alan and I heard an odd noise. The streets were fairly deserted, yet – as an SUV approached us from a quiet side street – it made a distinctive thud-crack sound, as if it had run over a metal plate in the road.

We looked over just in time to see the driver raise her hand to her mouth in an expression that made it clear something bad had, in fact, just happened. It was odd though – she was the only person on the street, and she was going a sluggish 10 mph. So we couldn’t imagine what damage had just occurred…

Until she pulled over and we saw the car parallel-parked at the front of the line near the stop sign. Its bumper was lying on the ground in front of it.

It was like this, but not a Jag...

It was like this, but not a Jag…

“Holy shit!” I exclaimed. “Did she really just rip the bumper off that car?”

Alan’s mouth hung agape. “I don’t even understand what happened,” he commented. “She is the ONLY car on that street, so she didn’t need to be hugging the side of the road. And she wasn’t even going fast.”

We stood like spectators at a circus, waiting to see what she would do next. A troop of three municipal workers stood next to us, surrounding a garbage can, arms folded in anticipation.

Oblivious to our presence, the woman exited her SUV and ran around to inspect the damage. She bent down and lifted the car’s bumper and attempted to fit it back on the car.

“Now that is some f*cked up sh*t,” one of the men near us commented. Indeed.

Once we knew the situation was under control with ample witnesses, we took off. “Wow,” I said. “I can’t imagine what the owner of that car will feel like when he comes out to find that his bumper has been ripped off.”

Alan stopped and looked at me. “Um, yes you can. Because didn’t this happen to you?”

I smacked my head. OF COURSE. Five years ago, my car was totalled by a drunk driver while parked on the street in front of my house. So yeah, I guess I did know what that felt like. Except in my case, I heard the crash and had the benefit of adrenaline when I went running out to see my car, its sad wheels akimbo.

DC clearly marks all spaces.

DC clearly marks all spaces.

We started laughing. “Even so,” I said, “That’s a pretty shitty way to start a Sunday.”

Even as I said it, I had a sense that I was somehow jinxing us. And indeed, two hours later, I wasn’t surprised to see my phone light up a few minutes after Alan left my place.

“Um, quick question. Didn’t we park on T Street, near 16th last night?” he asked.

I confirmed that we had.

“I thought so. But… um…  my car is not here.”

I went running down, my stomach sinking. It’s not uncommon to have your car go missing in the District, and it can generally be attributed to one of three things: 1) You circled for a spot for so long that you can’t remember where you actually ended up parking, 2) It was towed because you broke a poorly marked rule, or 3) It was stolen.

I’ve listed the scenarios in order of likelihood, yet whenever my car would go missing, I’d immediately jump to Number 3 and assume some thugs had stolen it. When I arrived at T Street, Alan was in the same boat, but we called the phone number on the nearby parking signs and learned that his car had, in fact, been towed. Crap.

We were perplexed, because we’ve both parked in that spot before and – as far as we could remember – there weren’t any specific weekend rules. We walked back to look at it and in doing so noticed a new sign. One designating that spot suddenly as handicapped-only. Not the kind of thing you notice when you arrive at 10pm, especially when you’ve parked there before.

Gah.

Interestingly, his car had been towed to a gas station back near the Diner, so we walked back past the car with its bumper lying in the road. “Well, I guess it could be worse,” I gestured. Alan shook his head, having no interest in my sudden optimism.

And for good cause. Know how much our oversight cost us? (Get ready to vomit.) Four hundred and seventy five dollars. Yes, that’s $475. Seriously.

Don’t get me wrong – I think there should be serious consequences for parking in a handicap spot. But we didn’t do it deliberately, and a fine of even $100 would have prompted me to jump out and read every sign in a three block radius moving forward. So this seems a bit excessive, does it not?

If I’ve learned anything from my mom, it’s fairness. So rather than try to fight the DC government with reason, I’ll accept their rules. But now I need to make sure I use a good pen when I write the check. Because I surely don’t want ink stains on my ass cheeks.

Alan's next license plate?

Alan’s next license plate?

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I put the “ass” in “nam-as-te.”

26 Jan

Image Source: http://www.funnyreign.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/03/namaste.jpg

Remember last month, when I made fun of that girl at the Diner who was showing a full two inches of her butt crack? Let’s just agree, karma is a bitch. (I mean that both literally and figuratively – Alan’s parents’ dog is named Karma, and she is technically a bitch. True story.)

Anyway… my covert photo-taking of the DinerGirl came back to haunt me in yoga.

When doing laundry the other week, I realized the Item that dictates when I need to do a load is my fleece pants. I practically live in them all winter and I only have one pair I consider perfection. (I have two other pairs that are runners-up, but they aren’t even in the same ballpark as my favorites.)

I had a moment of panic: What will I do when this pair wears out??? 

You know what I’m talking about.

I decided to guard against disaster. I went to REI.com (where I’d purchased this pair six years ago), praying they still stocked them. Alas, they didn’t, but they had something similar. On sale. So – still reeling from the thought that I might have to live without my favorite pants – I ordered three pairs. Did I mention they were on sale? It’s like fate WANTED me to be clad in fleece. (Did you hear that, Alan?)

Some three days later, they arrived at my door and I did backflips to realize they fit perfectly. The waistband was a bit lower than my favorites, but not exactly low riders. I thought nothing of it. (You should though, because I started this story talking about karma coming back to bite me in the ass.)

So last week I headed to yoga in my new fleece pants. It wasn’t ideal – I’m generally too hot to wear anything but light capris, but I was running late and didn’t have time to change. “They’ll work,” I told myself.

Image Source: See Course Deliverables TabAnd they did – until I did my first Down Dog.

You know how sometimes your shoes eat your socks? With every step they tug your socks down a half-inch, until your sock is smushed like an accordion between your arch and your heel? Well, that’s kind of what my pants were doing.

As I stretched in my Down Dog, I felt air on my lower back. I slid my hand around to check, and – sure enough – my pants had tugged down a bit and were riding just on the top of my hips. When we stood back up, I tugged them back up. But my underwear didn’t come with them.

Let’s repeat this move a few more times. Within ten minutes, my underwear were bunched up on my thighs, not even remotely covering my ass. I imagine it looked like I had a diaper on. And still, every time we ended in a Down Dog (which – in case you’re not familiar, is pretty much every other move when it comes to yoga), my pants were creeping lower.

I kept pulling them up, but there was more than one time when I reached back and found that we were entering Plumber’s Territory.

I considered leaving class rather than endure an hour of tug-of-war with my waistband. But in the end I decided my workout was more important than grossing out the women behind me. Mainly because I’m that dedicated. But also because prissy yogis get on my nerves.

Namaste, suckers.

 

[In somewhat related news, Alan arrived home one night to find me wearing my blouse from the office paired with my new fleece pants because I’d stalled out halfway through changing clothes. In full seriousness, he said, “You look nice. Did you stay dressed up for me?” Which either proves that men can’t tell the difference between flannel and foulard, or that Alan is clearly a breast-man, or that I’ve completely broken his spirit.]

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I’m clearly not going to be an astronaut. And it’s a good thing I’m not a teacher.

24 Jan
But I'll be damned if I can name them...

But I’ll be damned if I can name them…

Apparently I didn’t pay good attention during astronomy lessons as a child. This was highlighted the other night when I had to ask Alan, “Which one isn’t a planet any more? Jupiter or Pluto?”

He started giggling. “You’re joking, right?”

I was not.

“Unless it’s the Earth, Mars or Saturn, I don’t really have time for it,” I told him.

This made him laugh even harder. “You don’t ‘have time for it’? What does that even mean?” He paused. “Wait – you do know all the planets, don’t you?” he asked.

“Duh,” I nodded. “Every fourth grader knows the planets. Just don’t ask me to say them in order.”

My mind started to think back to the mnemonic we’d been taught to remember the order of the planets. “My mom makes pizza every Tuesday.”

Image Source: https://www.facebook.com/HumocracyI felt 90% confident, but thought perhaps I’d left out some descriptors. When I tried to puzzle out the planets, I came up with, “Mars, Mercury, Mmmm, Pluto, Earth, Tttth.” Which didn’t sound exactly right.

I tried again. “My mom makes delicious pizza at noon every Tuesday in June?”

Clearly, now that I’ve looked up the answer, that looks ridiculous. What planet did I think started with the letter T? Or D? And – now that I think of it – where’s the “S” for Saturn?

(In retrospect, I’ll admit – I think the phrase, “See you next Tuesday,” crept into this and confused me. If you don’t know what that means, try saying it to people and see if you get any raised eyebrows.)

Fortunately, Alan couldn’t hear my internal monologue and didn’t challenge me to name the planets. But he again seemed amused when – a few days later – we walked past the Smithsonian’s Air & Space Museum and I pointed out the planets they’ve constructed (to scale) in front of the building. “I wonder if they’ve yanked down the statue for Jupiter at the end.” I commented. Then amended, “Or is it Pluto?”

He shook his head, exasperated.

“Wait,” I said. “Let’s look at this line-up so I can get it straight.” So we started with the sun… and then walked to Mercury… and then walked to Venus… and then Earth… and then Mars…

“Whoa,” I stopped. “So we’ve been doing these expeditions to Mars?” Alan nodded. “Looks to me like Venus is much closer. Why don’t we go there instead?” I suggested, feeling brilliant for discovering a shortcut the so-called “scientists” at NASA had overlooked.

Again, Alan looked at me as if I were a stranger. “Perhaps because Venus has a surface temperature around 800 degrees?” he offered. “And an atmospheric pressure almost 100 times greater than Earth’s?”

“Riiiiiight,” I conceded. “That probably wouldn’t be good.” I thought for a moment.

Image Source: http://static.themetapicture.com/media/funny-earth-third-planet-from-sun.jpg“Speaking of – we’re only the third planet from the sun? That’s a lot closer than I was thinking.”

“Hence the television show ‘Third Rock’ with Jonathan Lithgow,” Alan prompted.

Indeed. (Though to be fair, I never watched that show because I thought it was a sci-fi show about aliens who lived on a rock. I had no idea it was actually set on the Earth.)

So clearly I’m a dumb-ass when it comes to astronomy. In case you are too, I thought I’d share the mnemonics I discovered to keep the planets straight. Apparently the one I learned has been obliterated since Pluto has been demoted. Here are the new versions:

My Very Educated Mother Just Saw Uncle Nick
My Very Energetic Mother Just Served Ur Nan
My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nuts

I would like to point out: these make NO sense. Why does your mom have to be educated to see Uncle Nick or serve us nuts? And what’s with “Ur Nan?” Is that a kind of bread? And why must your mom be energetic to do that?

So here are the phrases from when Pluto was considered a planet (pre-2006):

My Very Excellent Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas
My very exquisite mother just served us nine pizzas
My very energetic mum swam under north pole

I’m going to guess a MOM created all of these since the “E” adjectives are all very flattering. And I’m going to guess that – like me – no one actually remembered them since they weren’t very vivid. Had I been the teacher, a generation of pupils might have memorized the following:

My Very Eager Mother Just Serviced Uncle Nick’s Peter

Aaaaand… that’s probably why I didn’t become a teacher.

You’re welcome. 

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